


Better Homes & Gardens

by Blackbird (black_bird_777)



Category: XF - Fandom, XFiles - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Mulder/Skinner - XF, Xfiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-04
Updated: 2010-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-13 12:43:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_bird_777/pseuds/Blackbird





	Better Homes & Gardens

Better Homes & Gardens  
by Blackbird

Walter Skinner felt the air next to him fill with a presence. He looked up sharply from his magazine.  
“Mulder,” he acknowledged. His eyes shifted to the store entrance, automatically determining an escape route. He’d never before run into Mulder outside of work, and it was vaguely disturbing.  
“Uh, good afternoon, sir.” Mulder had apparently traded in his laconic personality for a stiff and tense one. “I saw you over here and thought I’d say hello.”  
“I was in the neighborhood.”  
Mulder nodded. “Well, they have an excellent selection.” He looked at the racks of magazines that stretched the length of the wall next to the store’s entrance, then flicked a finger at the magazine Skinner held. “But I’d have taken you for more of a *US News and World Report* man.”  
Skinner stared at the magazine in his hands. *Better Homes & Gardens* was open to a story about transforming your ordinary backyard to a magical English garden. “You’d be right. Sharon used to subscribe to several of these. She did a good job with the other house, so I thought they might work for me.” Skinner stopped abruptly.  
A light flush crept over Mulder’s face. “Well, sir, it’s not my forte either, but if I can help, just let me know. I’ll let you get on with your browsing.” Skinner nodded his good-bye. He absent-mindedly watched Mulder, dressed in jeans, t-shirt, and leather jacket, saunter into the depths of the bookstore. When Mulder got lost among the bookshelves, Walter looked down and glared at the magazine. He was not happy having been caught in the beam of Mulder’s all-seeing eyes. The gardens no longer looked full of cheery possibility, the hues of the beautifully decorated homes had faded. He rarely cared how other people saw him, but his respect for Mulder’s opinion was an exception. He slapped the magazine shut and threaded it into its proper place on the rack, then headed further into the bookstore.  
Mulder’s appearance had taken Skinner’s pleasant and harmless blue-sky day and turned it into a thunderstorm of guilt. He’d congratulated himself months ago on having successfully dealt with all the fallout from The Incident With The Prostitute. Only now, with perspiration beading on his scalp and his stomach squeezed tight, did he understand he’d dealt with nothing. He’d just packed it away.  
He wound through the maze of bookshelves and categories. Reading philosophy had brought him peace of mind before. He tilted his head to read the titles: *Aesthetics: A Reader in Philosophy of the Arts*. Right now he felt anything but aesthetic. *Achilles in the Quantum Universe : The Definitive History of Infinity*. No, infinity would leave him even more depressed. *Across the Universe With John Lennon*. Too glib for how he felt. All You Need is Love. Riiight.  
He crossed the aisle into Eastern Religion, hoping a here-and-now approach might provide enlightenment; he certainly was lacking inner peace. Despite his quest, or perhaps because of it, Mulder had always seemed to have an odd kind of inner peace. He waited for, and then endured, the throb of guilt that rocked him whenever he saw the man. He’d give distraction one last chance. He ran a finger across titles in the Zen Buddhism section. Now here was something interesting: *Afterzen : Experiences of a Zen Student Out on His Ear*. It had been a long time since he’d read Van De Wetering; the remembrance of the writer’s mystery-book characters sparked his interest until the thought of Mulder bit at him again. He trudged upstairs to the mezzanine coffee shop, hoping to find solace in a cup of coffee.  
After buying his cappucino, he chose a table in a corner. The cafe was decorated like the rest of the bookstore, with towering oak bookshelves full of old, well-read books that buffered him from other people. He spread The Post out over the small metal table. Sipping his coffee and pretending to read the paper should give him sufficient camouflage while he organized his past, hoping it would give him a solution to his reaction to Mulder.  
He was still sometimes jerked awake at night by the ooze of horror he’d felt waking up next to a dead person, despite the six months that had passed since the incident; he hated touching that experience even in the safety of daytime. He wondered if he’d processed the feelings in the sociologically expected order. First, despite having seen many dead bodies in his life, there was the visceral recoil from death. Soon after, he’d been almost ill when his mind contrasted the mangled body next to him with the vibrant woman in whom he’d found pleasure and satisfaction just hours before. And then there was the panic in not knowing if he’d done this sickening thing himself, if perhaps the old woman had been telling him in his dreams that he’d become a murderer.  
The time between the arrival of the police and his being cleared by OPC had stuttered by. Paralyzed with the possibility of his guilt, he was unable to help Mulder clear him, the only person who believed him. Topping it all off was the paranormal experience that saved his life as well as the lives of his agents and their witness.    
Mapping out the past years, The Incident With the Prostitute and Mulder’s involvement had clearly contributed to his unease with Mulder, but the roots of the problem were within himself. His divorce was a swamp he’d rather not sink into, but his relationship with Sharon was the muddy water upon which his current problem floated. In a misguided attempt at keeping her away from the evil in his job, he’d wielded the knife of silence years before, slicing her out of his life. If there had been no evil, would he have carved himself into a separate shape from Sharon? The answer didn’t really matter, the result of his silence and the loss of his marriage was the same: isolation.  
He shifted in the small metal chair and turned a page of the newspaper. After everything was over, Mulder had asked for the truth. Skinner had felt the pull of release; had, for one long moment, wanted to trust those deep hazel eyes with his secret; wanted to hear Mulder tell him that Mulder believed him. But Scully stood at the door. Perhaps Mulder had become numb to Scully’s scalpel-like reason, but  Skinner couldn’t possibly reveal himself in the face of her disbelief, especially when he barely believed the truth himself. Even without Scully’s presence, answering Mulder would have sharpened the edges of Skinner’s vulnerability and the experience he wanted to deny. So after Skinner clearly declined to answer, why did Mulder push while Skinner tore off the remnants of OPC from his desk? Was there something Mulder wanted besides the truth? Skinner saw something under the surface but he had no idea what it might be.  
Sharon had been right when she’d told him that he’d sacrificed for his macho pride; he knew now he had a lot to answer for. She had been right on other points, too. He needed to shove his life into a positive direction, do something about Mulder, do something about creating a solid, positive existence. He’d withdrawn so completely he’d become invisible. An unwelcome cousin in his own house, he touched nothing, imposed nothing of himself on the white canvas of its walls. He feared splashing color on the canvas as much as he feared being trapped in its white blankness until he died.  
So this morning, while running errands, he’d found himself in front of a large, anonymous bookstore. He rarely came to this part of town, and when he saw a long row of friendly-looking house and garden magazines, he was determined to be positive.  
He gulped the rest of his lukewarm coffee and stood hastily. Sitting still wasn’t getting him anywhere. He knew where he was headed, but he was as tense and insecure as before. But he knew one thing, he could even hear Sharon saying it: he had to talk to Mulder even if it was painful; he was desperate for even a hint of where he and Mulder stood. He hoped for a bolt of inspiration, because he had no idea what to say to Mulder when he found him in the bookstore. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time today--or ever--he looked like a fool in front of Mulder. Grinding his teeth, he stepped onto the escalator, and created an organized search plan.  
He started from the escalator and went toward Social Sciences. Halfway down the first aisle, he emerged from Psychology to see Mulder sitting cross-legged half-way down the aisle, his back to Skinner, engrossed in the book open on his lap. Walter glanced at the title of the shelf Mulder was leaning against. Gay, Lesbian, and Transgender. He froze for an instant, then darted into Economics and pretended to browse. Hovering in the safety of globalization and market research, he gathered the tattered scraps of his dignity.  
This new development was too much for him. He wasn’t even going to consider what Mulder might be doing in that section. And heaven knew he wasn’t going to talk to Mulder while he was absorbed in something like *The Joy of Gay Sex*. Walter shuddered and drew a shaky hand over his head.  
Hoping Mulder would soon move to another section where Skinner could talk to him, Skinner circled Mulder’s position stealthily. After several minutes of forced casual strolling, he returned to a section he could blend into--he took up residence in Business.  
More minutes ticked by with no sign of movement. Why couldn’t Mulder show an interest in something expected, like paranormal apparitions or astrology? Anything, even poetry, would better than the Gay, Lesbian, and Transgender section. What the hell could he say if he approached Mulder in that section? “I have something important to tell you about myself, are you free for dinner?” He cringed. It would sound like he was asking Mulder on a date as a prelude for coming out. Jeez.  
Skinner had been sure the Business section would keep him on an even keel, but he kept checking for Mulder even while perusing *Budgeting Basics and Beyond*. Business sorely failing him, it was time for the harder stuff. He crossed the aisle into War. If a book on Vietnam didn’t engross him, nothing could. He grabbed *Fire in the Lake* and started skimming.  
Finally Mulder’s head and shoulders popped up over the aisle shelving, and Skinner surreptitiously watched him as he roamed into Psychology, investigated Sociology, whipped through Religion, lingered in Poetry, and finally landed in Fiction.  
Skinner hadn’t been able to see if Mulder was carrying any books.  
Moving in Mulder’s direction, he mentally stumbled when his imagination showed him Mulder carting around something like the book that had the most embarrasing title he’d ever read: *Anal Pleasure and Health*. Shaking himself, he reminded himself further humiliation was possible; despite the intense concentration Mulder maintained on the shelved books, he would eventually look up and discover Skinner lurking in the Mystery section. He swallowed but continued slowly toward Mulder, wondering if soldiers had felt this way when they faced the gauntlet. He shook his head. Now he’d waded into melodrama. He’d damned well better get this over with. He slid into Fiction from Computers.  
 At his approach, Mulder looked up. “Finding everything, sir?”  
Skinner nodded. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about, but not here. Are you free for dinner?”  
Mulder rubbed his free hand down his jean-clad thigh; he appeared to be speechless. Just when Skinner wanted a quick answer, Mulder got tongue-tied.  
“Ah, yes. Yes, sir, I am.” He gestured to the short pile of books he held. “I’m done here, except to buy these.”  
“Fine.”  
 Mulder picked up the books and they walked to the cashier, Skinner determinedly not looking at the titles.  
“I don’t know any restaurants around here, do you?”  
Mulder looked thoughtfully at him. “I know a place you might like. Do you mind walking? It’s not far.”  
They walked in soft silence. Comfortably warm under navy Henley and battered leather jacket, Skinner’s chest expanded in a cleansing breath as his anxiety decreased. He was able to think rationally again. Mulder had spent a long time in the Gay, Lesbian, and Transgender section. Was Mulder gay? Was he bisexual? Neither possibility surprised him. Mulder was unconventional. Why should his sexuality be different?  
Skinner was startled that he’d never thought about Mulder’s sexuality before, considering his interest in the man’s unconventional thinking in other areas. He could see that Mulder was attractive, even handsome in a quirky way. He definitely had compelling eyes. Skinner frowned as he flashed on the sadness in those eyes as Mulder had stood rejected in his office.  
Mulder interrupted his reverie, “So, sir, are you going to spend your weekend landscaping or decorating, or looking for someone to hire?”  
“I haven’t decided. Hiring someone to do what I can do depersonalizes it. I wouldn’t feel like it was mine. I should take advantage of the weather.”  
“I can see you shaping your environment. When I was a kid my mother did a lot of gardening. I spent hours looking at her books, at the colorful pictures. One book was an encyclopedia of plants and the conditions they need to grow.” He looked away, almost blushing. “I think I memorized half the book.”  
His eyes flicked back to Skinner before looking front. “If you could use help choosing some plants, I may be able to help you. I’ve also done the grunt work--digging, tilling, planting.”  
Skinner couldn’t think what to say. He’d never received such a direct invitation from Mulder; warmth flowed through him. Mulder allowed occasional access to sections of himself, to only a few people. Skinner had been invited into this rich terrain once or twice, just for a few minutes, and he’d always appreciated the honor of this trust. His vulnerability twisted in his stomach as he considered accepting the invitation. If he’d been fearful of discussing his personal business with Mulder before, this deliberate invitation made it harder. He wanted limits and boundaries, but you never knew if the safe house you carefully maintained would withstand the electrical storm of Mulder’s existence.  
Yet he couldn’t deny this gift; he was certain rejection would mean no second chance. “Thank you, Mulder. I think I’d like that.”  
Mulder nodded and looked away, but Skinner could see he was pleased.  
Both men were silent until they arrived at the restaurant, a relief for Skinner, who needed a withdrawal period from dancing on the edge of vulnerability. Yep, the macho code was a pain in the ass.  
***  
The restaurant was merely a hole in the wall, but the large, comfortable chairs, clean but well-used red and white tablecloths, and decor ranging from chianti bottles to a suspended wooden rowboat made Skinner feel sure he would get a good homecooked meal.  
They shrugged their jackets off and settled into a booth. Skinner read the menu, hoping it wasn’t obvious he was hiding. Mulder’s bag of books lay accusingly on the unused half of the table. Skinner needed bolstering.  
“Do you mind if I have a drink?”  
Mulder looked up, startled. “Of course not.”  
Skinner beckoned the waiter, ordered a scotch, and ducked behind his menu while Mulder ordered a beer from a local microbrewery.  
Even while his stomach churned with nervousness, an unexpected flicker of excitement tingled down Skinner’s spine. Yes, he was entering the unknown, but now that he sat in front of Mulder, a man he trusted and who had trusted him, he could admit that fear mixed with anticipation felt better than guilt entwined with regret. Maybe Sharon was right in this, too; there were times the unknown smelled clean, like newly mown grass. And Skinner had a strange faith that Mulder knew the land here, he frequently coped with vulnerability and survived, he would understand how hard it was for Skinner to take these steps and he would not desert him.  
Calmness arrived dressed as their waiter. They gave their orders and sipped their drinks, waiting for their food. Mulder glanced several times at the bag containing his books, an unidentifiable expression on his face. Finally, Mulder pulled the books out.  
“Sir, I hope you don’t mind, but I thought this might help.” He pushed a book across the table, *Better Homes and Gardens Complete Guide to Gardening*.  
Walter read the title and looked at Mulder. There was a spark of humor in those expressive eyes, but there was also trepidation. Skinner couldn’t resist smiling; the pleasure cresting through him was less in appreciation of the joke and more from Mulder’s thoughtfulness. He considered before answering.  
“Thank you, Mulder. We obviously have similar taste.”  
The smile Mulder returned was incandescent. “Glad you like it, sir.”  
Overtaken with curiosity, Walter tilted his head toward the books as he raised a questioning eyebrow at Mulder. Mulder nodded. Skinner turned the remaining books around to read the top title. *Omens of the Millennium: The Gnosis of Angels, Dreams, and Resurrection* by Harold Bloom. Well, he’d expected *something* arcane. He moved this to the side to reveal Carlos Casteneda. His eyebrows rose as he looked at Mulder.  
“An indulgence. In this book, they begin more of an honest exploration of the other dimension. At least there’s no overt mention of mescaline.” He shrugged. “It was on sale.”  
The last book in the stack was *Outstanding Lives: Profiles of Lesbians and Gay Men*. Even though it wasn’t as bad as finding *The Joy of Gay Sex*, he piled the other books on top of this book, grabbed his scotch, and fought to think of some way to turn the conversation, all while avoiding Mulder’s eye. He blurted out the first thing that came into his head, “The old woman hasn’t been back.”  
It took only a second for Mulder to follow the non-sequitur.  
“The last time I saw her was the day I shot the assassin.”  
Mulder’s face was blank, but he nodded his encouragement.  
“I went to the ICU to see Sharon. She--” Skinner went back to his scotch. How much did he want Mulder to know? Now that he’d started, could he hold anything back and still put an end to his guilt? Did he want to hold anything back?  
Skinner chest was tight as he pushed his sleeves up his forearms. “I went to tell her I loved her--had for years. I closed myself off to protect her. But I always knew she was there. It was too late, but I couldn’t bear to see it. The damage couldn’t be repaired.”  
Mulder continued to watch him, concern in his eyes.  
“The ICU machine started beeping and I went for help, but I turned back to see the old woman lying there instead of Sharon.” As he described the moment for Mulder, the war between disbelief and his sight threatened to dizzy him as it had in the hospital. “It’s impossible, but I saw the hotel room and the assassin in my head. I just knew what was going to happen. I thought I’d believed some of your more outrageous cases, but I had no idea what outrageous meant until then.”  
“The cognitive dissonance that occurs when you first accept the impossible is deeply jarring,” Mulder agreed.  
Walter rolled the glass between his palms. “In Vietnam, I could accept the supernatural. The drugs dulled everything and thinking about the unbelievable was better than thinking about what was going on around us. But when the succubus showed up here in D.C., where life is at least more normal than it was in ’Nam, I was shocked.”  
“Your reaction is not atypical. I think Scully fights it so hard because she knows her world order will shift forever and she won’t or can’t cope with that. You probably knew subconsciously you’d have to face this shift, because of your previous experiences. It doesn’t mean you have to like it.”  
Skinner nodded. “Mulder, I regret not telling you when you asked. You fought to clear me and you believed me. Sharon told me later that she asked you if you thought I’d killed Carina Sales. She said you were certain I hadn’t. You were more certain than my own wife.”  
Mulder’s cheeks turned pink. “She didn’t know that part of you. She--”  
“You don’t need to excuse her, Mulder. It’s a hard thing for anyone to disbelieve.”  
“I’m sorry, sir.”  
“No reason. It’s done, it’s over. I hope we both can learn from it.”  
“And did you learn to be more open, sir?”  
Skinner sucked in a breath of air. Why should he be surprised? Look who he was sitting across from. As difficult as it was to answer the question, it was time to put up or shut up.  
“Am I sitting in front of you?”  
“Yes, sir, you are. But I don’t know why. I can’t help thinking you should be sitting in front of Sharon.”  
“Even the reconciliation didn’t work. We’re working towards being friends, but it’s over.”  
“Despite the wedding ring?”  
Walter shook his head and looked Mulder in the eyes. “I haven’t worn it in a long time.”  
Mulder only nodded, but his eyes spoke for him. So Mulder had noticed exactly when Walter had put it away.  
Skinner took a deep breath. “You want openness, Mulder? Well, hold tight: I trust you and I appreciate your trust in me.”  
Mulder held his gaze, pleasure shining in his hazel eyes. “It takes a long time to trust, doesn’t it?”  
Skinner saw both the question and the apology. “We both know it does. Sometimes we never manage it and we lose opportunities. Sometimes we find that some risks are worth taking. Considering the lives we’ve both led these past years, I think we’re entitled to at least a little trust, maybe a little happiness.”  
Mulder added, “We can hope,” and raised his glass in a toast.  
***  
The dark blue evening cocooned them as they stood next to Mulder’s car. Skinner took a deep breath. This was even harder than he’d expected it to be, but he needed to say it. “Still interested in getting your hands dirty--literally?”  
The corners of Mulder’s mouth lifted. “When do we start?”  
“Why don’t you come over around noon. That’ll give me time to come up with an idea of where I want things to go. I can pick up tools and plants in the morning.”  
“I have a better idea. I’ll come by around nine. You can make me coffee, we can work out a plan, then go to the nursery together.” Mulder dug into his bag and handed the gardening book to Skinner. “It’ll be faster if I go with you.”  
Skinner took the book and nodded. “Coffee at nine it is.”  
***  
The dinner bell was calling all the cats and dogs floating in the sky to come in and put on their tuxedos, or they’d be late for the wedding. It had a strange sound, not like he’d expect of a dinner bell. Oddly, it sounded like his doorbell. He lifted his head high enough to see the clock. Oh shit. 9:10. He never overslept. He grabbed his glasses and hurried down the stairs to the front door.  
Skinner opened the door to find Mulder in the same outfit as he’d had on yesterday, except today’s t-shirt was white, not gray. Mulder’s eyes flickered the length of Walter’s body and grew wide. Walter almost checked to make sure he wasn’t peeking out of his shorts.  
“This is not your regular look, sir.”  
Skinner glared at him. “I overslept.”  
“I thought you’d be a morning person.”  
“I am. I never oversleep.” Mulder followed Walter into the kitchen.  
“Ah. Would you like me to start the coffee?”  
“No. Field agents aren’t to be trusted with real coffee. Their tastebuds are damaged by too much bad coffee consumed in desperation.”  
He set the coffee maker to drip, then turned to Mulder. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get ready.”  
***  
The day flew by as they planned, dug, and planted Skinner’s yard. Walter was occasionally halted by the sight of Fox Mulder contentedly tilling soil or arranging border blocks for new beds. He wasn’t sure what bemused him more: being friendly enough with anyone to have unpaid help, or seeing that help, who he’d previously thought was a soil-free city boy, contentedly covered in dirt.  
They worked on the same patch of land more often than not and Skinner enjoyed their short conversations. Walter thought of the friends he’d let slip away after he and Sharon split up. He couldn’t imagine spending the day with any of them, either doing this type of work or feeling so comfortable.  
The sky was dimming to yellow-blue when Skinner’s stomach gave one long growl, finally getting his attention. He looked up to see Mulder on hands and knees, trimming grass around one of the beds.  
“I don’t think pizza is going to be enough for dinner. Would Thai be OK?”  
Mulder turned and sat wearily in the dirt. “Yeah. Just get a lot. I’ll eat anything.”  
Skinner nodded. “Why don’t you come in with me? We’ve done enough today.”  
Mulder nodded and rubbed a grimy hand across his forehead.  
Skinner laughed, startling Mulder and earning a look of puzzlement. “You look like a ten-year-old who got tired of playing in the dirt.”  
Mulder smiled back. “I kind of feel that way, too.”  
As they walked inside, stomping the dirt off their shoes, Skinner said, “You shower while I call in the food.”  
Mulder nodded. “Can I borrow some sweats? I didn’t think to bring a change of clothes.” His jeans and t-shirt were streaked with dirt and sweat.  
“Sure.” Skinner grabbed a towel on the way to the bathroom and left to collect some clean clothes. The shower came on immediately.  
Sweats and shirt in hand, Skinner knocked on the bathroom door. Hearing a partially drowned out, “Come in,” he opened the door and glanced at Mulder through the transparent shower curtain. The clothes in his hand were forgotten as Mulder rubbed his soapy hand up the inside of his leg, then over his genitals. Skinner was transfixed and continued to stare as Mulder shifted and soaped between his buttocks.  
“Walter, you there?” Mulder let the shower cascade over his face, then wiped his eyes with one hand and peered into the bathroom through the curtain.  
Skinner cleared his throat. “Dropping off the clothes.”  
Mulder nodded and began washing his feet. Skinner quickly laid the clothes down on the closed toilet lid, backed out of the bathroom, shut the door behind him, and walked until he was stopped by the kitchen table. He slumped onto a kitchen chair, knees weak, stomach leaden, itching with the urge to strip himself to the skin and join the warm, clean water that spilled over Mulder’s lean body. A shudder coursed through him, snapping his mind awake. Where the hell had this come from?  
He leaned forward onto the table, forearms taking his weight, embarrassed yet tingling with new awareness. He’d always been physically aware of and sympathetic to Mulder, but he’d thought his reaction was based on respect for the man’s intellect, honesty, and integrity. He’d been aware that Mulder’s jaw carried his determination, but his lips betrayed his vulnerability. His hands were strong, but they also expressed his impatience at others’ disbelief. Now the thought of Mulder’s hands brought a vision of the way they smoothed lather over his chest, slid down the flat stomach, and casually swiped over the folds of his cock and balls.  
A note of discord colored his vision, but he couldn’t exactly place what was off. He rewound the scene to the beginning. He had knocked and Mulder had told him to enter. He had come in in time to watch Mulder wash his genitals. Skinner jerked back in his seat. It was the timing. Even with soap in his face, Mulder must have been sure Skinner was there when he washed himself. Mulder was coming on to him? No, he couldn’t be, could he?  
He couldn’t even guess; he was too muddled by his own insecurity. And he had no idea how he’d react even if it was true. Perhaps he’d better hang back and use the rest of the evening to figure out what Mulder was doing. Mulder was bound to present another hint. He grabbed the phone and called in a food order.  
When Skinner heard the shower turn off, he went back to the bedroom, gathering clean clothes for himself. He knocked on the half-open bathroom door and peeked in.  
“Do you have a razor I can use?” Mulder had pulled on the sweat pants.  
He handed Mulder his electric razor and ushered him out of the bathroom, not looking at the neglected water drops glistening across the golden expanse of Mulder’s chest.  
The door firmly shut, he showered quickly. He was barely dried off when Mulder knocked. He wrapped the towel around his hips. “Yes.”  
Mulder’s head popped around the door. “Sorry, sir, electric never works for me.”  
“I have a blade, but it’s a straight razor. Have you ever used one?”  
“Nope.”  
Skinner paused and looked into Mulder’s eyes. He liked the idea of flipping the tables on Mulder, or at least provoking a reaction that he wouldn’t have to work at interpreting. If nothing else, it would give him further insight into the man. And there was something daring, breathtaking, that appealed. “Should I do it for you?”  
For a moment, Mulder looked as though he’d lost track of the conversation. But Skinner saw the wheels turning behind the deep hazel eyes, and knew the second the implications sunk in.  
“I’m game.” Mulder’s tone was casual, but Walter heard the tension in Mulder’s voice and watched a shiver pass over his shoulders as he sat on the toilet lid.  
Skinner filled the sink with warm water, opened the razor, and laid it on the edge of the basin. Mulder was looking into space, his expression undecipherable. Walter took a steadying breath and squeezed shaving gel onto his fingers.  
He smoothed the gel onto Mulder’s face, creating a uniform froth, covering the skin from cheek bones to neck. While his fingers slid over planes of almost delicate bone structure, his fingertips absorbed the texture of the skin through the cream. Mulder’s facial hair rasped over his fingertips; the prickling crawled like a shiver up his arm. The hairs had character; they were silky and gentle over his cheeks, but short and coarse over his chin.  
He picked up the razor and regarded Mulder. His eyes were closed, his expression was serene, and his head was tilted back to expose his throat. To avoid startling him, Skinner cradled the back of Mulder’s head in one hand. He drew the water-warmed razor down one cheek. The bristles’ initial resistance and final acquiescence to his blade resonated through his fingers.  
Mulder’s face became an orchestral concert for Walter’s senses. The instrument was the razor, the musicians were Walter’s fingers, and the notes created by them vibrated through his body. The difference between the irascible bristles and the tender skin provided the only dissonance in the piece, a dissonance Walter was determined to change to the sweetest consonance.  
Mulder’s face was revealed by the glide of the razor, each stroke adding to the harmony. The first strokes connected cheekbone to jaw over taut cheeks. Next the strokes began at the wings of the jaw, followed that strong bone across the cheeks, and dipped down to the neck. Short careful swipes over the upper lip were next, then Walter slowed the pace as the razor dipped in and out of the challenging passages between the lower lip and the chin. The pronounced Adam’s apple required delicacy, but those gentle strokes led to a prolonged sweep up the long, lush arc of Mulder’s neck. Finally, Walter redefined the length of the sideburns, where Mulder’s smooth luxuriant hair gave way to tough spiky bristles.  
 Turning Mulder’s face to the one side then the other looking for missed notes that might jar the silken melody, Walter’s eyes met Mulder’s. He’d been so involved in this exquisite orchestration, he hadn’t even wondered how Mulder was reacting.  
The dilated eyes and look of shocked pleasure on Mulder’s face lulled Walter into continuing his musical journey. He roamed the rest of Mulder’s face with his eyes, realizing that he also wanted to know this man’s internal harmonies. It barely registered that there would be more minor notes than the song that showed on Mulder’s face; Walter needed that music, whatever its sound, to pulse through his veins.  
Mulder blinked and drew a breath and Skinner realized what he’d been doing. He rinsed off the razor with hands he refused to let tremble, then pulled out the sink drain. He opened the door, telling Mulder, “I’ll let you clean the rest off your face,” then stepped out of the bathroom and closed the door behind him.  
In the bedroom, he hung the towel over his suit rack and pulled on a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt. He was walking through water, his muscles thick and uncooperative. His mind could not release the music he’d found in Mulder; he couldn’t stop dwelling on what else could be revealed.  
Mulder came downstairs as the doorbell rang and he helped Skinner with the food, plates, silverware, and beer. They settled on the white leather couch, Skinner flipping on the TV. Still slow and lethargic, he hoped he’d regain some agility before the inevitable discussion descended.  
They watched TV for the rest of the evening, the occasional conversation casual and non-threatening. Skinner waited almost patiently for Mulder to raise any one of the many issues that remained sticky and taffy-like between them. Weary of shouldering his burden of misery, he felt oddly detached from the threatening storm. He was ready to brave anything, as long as it meant going beyond where he was right now.  
*****  
Finally, after several beers, Mulder asked, “Was there more to the succubus than you’ve told me?”  
Walter took a drink of beer. “The succubus doesn’t matter. Telling *about her* doesn’t matter. This is new to me, Mulder, wanting to tell something to someone, caring what someone thinks.”  
“Telling *me*?”  
Skinner nodded, trying to quell the rolling waves that seemed to have replaced his stomach. The song of Mulder’s skin still hummed along his nerve paths; this sensation and its lesson blended with everything else new he’d done in the past day. It was time for his decision. That strange warning tingle again raced up his back, coursed down his arms, and throbbed into his fingers. Did he really have a choice? Did he really think he could turn away from Mulder again? He wasn’t such a fool.  
“Not Sharon, not Scully. You.” Skinner gazed at Mulder, looking for a clue to his own feelings. “You spoke of dissonance last night. I’m in it up to my hips. You are the one person I needed to talk to; I don’t have a problem with that. On the other hand, I don’t know how this is happening to me. I’m changing so fast, it’s out of my control; I hate that.”  
“Walter, you don’t need control with me. I hope you’re beginning to understand that.” He gathered the dishes and leftover food and took them into the kitchen. Skinner barely registered the sound of dishwashing; Mulder had just given Walter a carte blanche invitation to himself. Walter was breathless; in one instant he was released from the quicksand of disharmony and doubt, to be suspended in the clear blue air of understanding.  
How could he have missed Mulder’s interest in him or his in Mulder? Sharon’s statements about his obliviousness to the effects of his pride and isolation were true.  
Mulder came back to the living room and stood there, watching him. “Well?” He might have been attempting a calm facade, but Walter saw the underlying shimmer of nervousness and hope, and his own stomach flipped with what they were headed toward.  
“Yeah, I’m starting to understand.” He paused, having to ask, “How long?”  
Mulder smiled slightly and shook his head. “A long time.”  
Mulder waited, ever patient, and Walter no longer knew why he was hesitating. He stood up, wanting to replace the tentative inexpression on Mulder’s face with sureness.  
“I think we should go upstairs.” Mulder waited again for him, but Skinner’s legs were leaden.  
Mulder walked to him and cupped his jaw, his eyes describing his needs and his vulnerability. Walter didn’t want to hurt him any longer. He paused until the warmth of Mulder’s hand seeped into his skin, then leaned forward and let his lips rest on Mulder’s. Even though their lips barely touched, Walter felt the thrill down to his toes. Apparently it was all Mulder needed; he smiled in understanding as he took Walter’s hand and led the way to the bedroom.  
They stopped next to the bed, Mulder pressing a quick kiss to Walter’s cheek before darting to the bathroom. Walter undressed slowly, not really believing this was going to happen. Mulder returned, having stripped down to his sweat pants, and came to a stop in front of Walter. He held Walter’s head still and licked softly at Walter’s lips. Before Walter could think, Mulder had dropped to his knees in front of Walter, staring at his cock, licking his lips, murmuring sounds Walter realized were words.  
“So beautiful, Walter, perfect. Oh god, so big, so beautiful.” Then Mulder’s mouth became a hot silky whirlwind around his cock. Walter was stunned. Mulder had him up and looking toward the goal almost in seconds. Through a haze of sensation he tried to catalog what Mulder was doing to him, but it was impossible. The ecstasy shot into his body, he felt the last suck throughout his nervous system. He was going to fall soon, and even though he really didn’t want to stop this pleasure, he desperately needed to taste Mulder’s beautiful mouth. A few light pushes on his shoulders didn’t dissuade Mulder, so he finally had to firmly push Mulder off his cock.  
“Please, Walter, don’t ask me to stop,” Mulder’s eyes were pleading. “You’re so much more than I dreamed.”  
It was the first time flattery left him breathless. “All right. But bed.”  
Mulder followed him to the bed, stripping the rest of his clothes off on the way. He eagerly followed Walter down onto the mattress, pushed his legs open, and rubbed his dripping cock against Walter’s thigh. Before Mulder could suck him back into oblivion, he managed to choke out, “Don’t come, Mulder. I mean it.” Mulder looked doubtful, but didn’t argue.  
Mulder licked Walter’s balls enthusiastically, then snuffled and licked the crease between torso and leg. He pushed his balls up, driving his hot tongue over his perineum. Again Mulder’s tongue bathed Skinner’s balls, then he sucked each into his mouth, his tongue rolling them while he lightly sucked on them. Mulder’s fingers tickled his perineum, then dipped lower. That feathery touch over his entrance brought all his nerves together in an electrical hum; even without a touch to his cock he thought he might come.  
Mulder sensed his urgency--suddenly Walter’s cock was sucked down into Mulder’s throat, and just as suddenly it was released. He startled himself with a loud groan of dismay. But Mulder was off on another tack. The distraction of cool air wafting around his cock and balls was soon replaced with tiny licks and nibbles, starting at the base of his cock and working all the way up. Concentrating on the head, Mulder alternated light cool breaths over the sensitive skin with licks and gentle prods to the slit itself. Skinner was gasping as the intensity grew into a blade of ecstasy, but he didn’t think he could come this way, and he was getting desperate for release. Finally Mulder’s hand firmly embraced him and, tongue flicking over the slit, he pumped once, twice, and Walter was groaning as his release poured out of him.  
When he recovered the energy to move, he raised his head to see Mulder resting his head on his thigh, looking content, but also mesmerized by his cock and balls, as though he were committing them to memory. Now that he was able to think again, he suspected Mulder had been learning him during that mind-blowing blow job the same way he’d learned Mulder’s face earlier that night.  
Walter cleared his throat before he could speak. “I never would have guessed shaving could be so erotic. Or provoke such a reaction, albeit delayed.”  
“Yeah, well, you’re not the only one.”  
“I want to explore all of you that way.”  
“You want to shave the rest of me?”  
Skinner shivered. “Uh, well, that’s not exactly what I was thinking, but now that you mention it...”  
“Little did I know--”  
Skinner interrupted, “But not now,” and rolled on top of Mulder, kissing him.  
He learned Mulder’s mouth, continuing the kiss as long as he wanted. Not that he was getting an argument from Mulder, but the speed and pressure of Mulder’s cock rubbing on his stomach was getting out of control. Walter had something specific in mind, and that meant calming Mulder down a little. He licked his way out of the kiss, then lay on his back. He gestured for Mulder to straddle his chest.  
He slipped further beneath Mulder, and sucked one of his balls into his mouth, wrapping his hands around Mulder’s buttocks. He’d loved kissing Mulder, loved the man’s smell and taste, but while he wanted this intimacy, he wasn’t sure he could go through with it. Mulder’s scent was strongest here, yet he felt no distress. In fact, he thought he could stay here forever, exploring lower, deeper into this amazing man. But Mulder was thrusting in need, not caring that his balls were captured in Skinner’s mouth, and Skinner feared he might hurt himself.  
He released Mulder’s balls, drawing himself up so he was propped against the wall, a pillow buffering him.  
He took a deep breath and said, “I’m not sure I can do this, but I want to try,” before again taking Mulder’s buttocks in his hands, and pushing Mulder’s hips forward so the arrow of his cock slid into his mouth.  
Using the grip he had on Mulder’s ass, Walter pushed Mulder’s hips forward until his cock was as far down Walter’s throat as he could tolerate. Mulder quickly got the idea, and thrust in and out, keeping his movements shallow. Walter needed to do one more thing, so he tucked his fingers deep into the space between Mulder’s buttocks and flittered over the pucker of skin. In a very short time Mulder’s panting breaths turned into harsh gasps and his cock grew thicker in Skinner’s mouth. Suddenly he jackknifed forward, cried out, fell forward onto his hands against the wall, and came, pumping warmth into Walter’s mouth.  
***  
Christ, it had felt good having Mulder’s cock in his mouth, almost as good as having his cock in Mulder’s. It was a disconcerting thought. He had no idea if he was gay, he was too satiated with the taste and scent of Mulder to care, but he suspected his passion for Mulder’s cock spoke to Mulder’s uniqueness. Mulder brought out thoughts and feelings in him no one else had. A voice in his head reminded him that life would be infinitely simpler without these feelings or without Mulder, but the voice was weak and stank of the past. Another voice, suspiciously like Sharon’s, stated with some exasperation that this is what he’d been looking for. Nothing explained how he could change so rapidly, with so little real effort or pain, and end in such a delightful, peaceful place. He sighed.  
Mulder looked up at him, worry on his face. “Penny for them?”  
He was transported back to square one. If this was going to work, he had to open up. Regularly. The fabric of isolation settled over him like a shroud. Then the tingle of pleasure that had crept up his spine at the restaurant tickled him again. It had been right then, and was probably right now: revealing himself could feel good. This was do or die. The shroud fell away as he reached for Mulder, wrapping both arms around him and kissing him soundly.  
“I’m going to try, Mulder, but I don’t know what my success rate will be. You might want to appreciate this while you can.” Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t fight the flush that came over his cheeks. “I’ve had something of a revelation. Actually I’ve had several in the last thirty-six hours.”  
Mulder’s gaze was wry. “Well, duh.”  
“Not just this,” he nodded at their entwined bodies. “But this, everything. I never expected any of it. But Sharon--Sharon told me if I didn’t want to die alone, I needed to give up some of my macho pride and open up to someone. What’s strange is that I never wanted to do that before, not even to her, but I want to with you. I want to--well, I want know all of you, and I want you to know me. I can’t promise this’ll be easy, or that I won’t need prodding, but you’ve always been good at that...” He stopped babbling and cringed at his ineptness.  
The incandescent smile Mulder had given him before couldn’t compare to the expression of delight and shy pleasure that now brightened Mulder’s face. Mulder cleared his throat twice, and hoarsely said, “Thank you. I love you, too.”  
Each time he tried with this man, he was rewarded. He knew it wouldn’t always be this easy, in fact, he was sure this day was the exception. But as the old, stifling pressure rolled off his shoulders, he asked himself if what he’d gained by opening up to Mulder was worth the price of his vulnerability. A new, precious pressure lodged in his chest and he could see Sharon look up from her *Better Homes & Gardens* and smile at him, “Of course it is, Walter, of course it is.”

the end  
please send feedback to riesling@pobox.com


End file.
